The Call of Duty
by JessicaJ
Summary: When Tifa, a widow, finds a man bleeding to death near her isolated home, what is she to do but take him under her wing? Fate sometimes plays strange games, as they become painfully aware.
1. Chapter 1

_OK, so this is another venture into the realm of my own world. I.e. NORMAL rules do not apply. I'm so sorry for not finishing stories/updating as often as I would like, but for those of my readers who are also writers, you'll sympathise, right? It's hard once you've got a newamazingomg idea in your head to hold onto the old ones. I do apologise, and I'll do my best. _

_End chapter of Caffé Azzuro in the works, check it out!_

_-Part 1-_

A Monday morning as usual. The sun was shining brightly through her barely adequate curtains, waking her only an hour after dawn. At the sound of her feet on the bare wooden floors, Scout came trotting to her side from his place by the radiator, his black ears flopping around as he walked. She reached out for the morning's customary scratch under the collar, before she stood and stretched, her faithful sheep dog walking a few circles around her ankles.

The ladies were already up and gaggling away it seemed; as she tugged back the curtains and cast open the window, the babble of chatter from the chicken coup, and duck pond drifted into the room. She inhaled the scent of still-damp grass, clinging to the evening's dew.

Tugging on her rubber wellies and her husband's old, oversized rain Mac over her pyjama's, Tifa stepped outside her front door into the glorious morning light, laughing as her resident ducks waddled over to her. She trudged through the mud-ridden path towards the chicken coup, apologising to them over their screeching; she was only borrowing one egg. She would allow this clutch to hatch perhaps. New life was always an exciting thing to experience, at this time of year.

Retreating back into the warmth of her house, for the night had not yet relinquished it's cold grip on the morning, she set the kettle onto the stove to boil. Waiting for it to begin its impertinent whistling, she stood over by the window, arranging the few trinkets that adorned the sill.

The farm was located miles out from anywhere, in the quiet of the Kalm grasslands. While her husband had been alive, he hadn't always been at home. In that sense, this morning wasn't unlike one before his death. He worked in the mines, so many miles south of here, in the mountains. An unexpected landslide had claimed his life, as well as two others. That was four years before.

Now, she lived alone with their black and white sheep dog, Scout, as well as a wealth of adopted animals she had since taken into her care; several cats, named Confucius, Newton, Florence, and Aristotle (after famous persons from the books she had read,) a fox, she liked to call Twitch, and also her pride and joy, the black Chocobo, Troy.

Since her husband's death, she had busied herself with the house, undertaking jobs that he had never thought to complete, let alone start. She'd painted the whole building a lemon yellow, the doors and window frames a fresh spring green, and the white picket fence, remained so. She grew roses, tulips, her own vegetables in a large patch out the back, as well as having her own orchard, for apples, pears and plums. It was pretty idyllic, though if she ever cared to look upon the face of another living person, she would need to take Troy and ride for a half hour to Kalm. Though often, with her surrounding company, she did not require such very often.

Satisfied with her boiled egg, toast, and mug of tea, she offered a left over crust to a hopeful Scout, before retreating upstairs to dress properly for the day ahead. She didn't have that many jobs to do today, so she was quite looking forward to a long rambling walk with Scout, and also with Twitch, if he cared to accompany her. She'd reached an agreement with the little fox; no killing her chickens, and she would feed him. He'd been abandoned as a cub, and unable to resist his flame-coloured fur, big amber eyes, and his mew-like bark, she had adopted him. The cats were always there to keep him in line, were he to start trouble, she thought with a chuckle.

She twisted the squeaking valve that set off the burst of hot water, stepping under the refreshing stream to rinse away any residual aches from her night's slumber. She had not slept particularly well; the moon was high, filtering in through her curtains, keeping her awake. Suitably washed, she shut off the stream of water, and rubbed at her body roughly with a towel, padding across the small hall space between the bathroom and her bedroom, Scout at her heels. He accompanied her everywhere, and she had been lonely enough four years ago to not wish to discourage him.

Selecting a knee length dress striped with pastels, to go with her rather unorthodox wellington boots, feeling that perhaps it would be good to get some sun to her legs at least, she combed out her hair then swiftly braided it, hoping that the sun would dry it out by the afternoon. A cotton jacket covering her shoulders, her door keys in hand, as well as Scout's favourite tennis ball, she shot a glance at the clock before she locked her back door leading out of the kitchen and out into the yard. It was just past lunch time. She didn't plan on returning until late afternoon. If she was lucky, Scout would catch her a rabbit; that way she could make a pie, or a stew to last her a few days. With said companion yapping at her heels, she clapped her hands together and set off at a trot down the muddy path, towards the open pastures of the Kalm grasslands.

_-Part 2-_

The birds were all atwitter, dancing mad circles in the open skies above her. Heading east, towards the coast, she had been walking for two hours, her limbs aching in a way that made her long for her armchair by the fire, and a good book. Her arm was tiring from the continual action of flinging the ball for Scout as far as she could. Aforementioned dog had his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth, his ear pricked and alert. Tifa smiled; He had caught the scent of something, that was for sure, and she laughed as the sheep dog shot off, his legs working tirelessly beneath him.

Tifa turned around, back in the direction of her farm, Scout now just a black and white blue in the expanse of green. Though the day had been filled with promise of good weather, a frown crossed her face at the sight of grey clouds gathering ahead of her. If it were to rain, she'd be walking right into it.

Picking up her pace, she made after Scout. The dog returned to her side a good while later, his flanks heaving, though not without reason; clutched in his jaws was a rather fat brown rabbit, which he then proceeded to drop at his owner's feet.

"Good boy!" She fussed, mussing the dog's fur. Picking the poor creature up, she fastened a small length of rope about its feet, and carried it by her side. She loved animals, that was certain, but Scout was a natural hunter; to not eat it would be a waste of good meat. And her favourite thing to eat, was rabbit stew.

They continued on happily for a time, the sky ever darkening as it passed over her head. She could make out her farm in the distance now; another mile perhaps, though she doubted they would escape the rain.

Suddenly, Scout started to bark, his teeth bared, a distressed whine emitting from his throat. "What is it Scout?" Perhaps, she thought, he could sense the imminent storm. But of course he should be used to them by now… The dog whimpered, his nose raised to the air, twitching rapidly. Then he bounded off, stopping to sniff at various points on his way. The ground was unlevel around this area; thick tussocks of grass, rabbit holes, and even Badger sets dotted the grasslands, making walking a little precarious for those with a careless step. Though when she saw what Scout had found, she disregarded them, breaking into a clumsy run.

Her dog was currently sniffing at a lifeless shape, partially obscured by the trunk of a tree, from her point of view. She could make out legs, and now closer, hands… The clouds were breaking now, and she could hear the faint patter-patter of rain drops hitting the leaves of the oak tree ahead. She dropped the rabbit to the ground, ceasing in her running underneath the cover of the tree. A man lay with his back up against the tree's trunk, his shirt soaked through with what she knew was blood. It looked dark, old, as though he had been wounded for some time. He defiantly had not been there when she had set out that afternoon.

"Oh my god!--Can you hear me?" She fell into a crouch, unsure of what to do. The man was clutching at a place on his chest, his fingers stained with fresh blood. "Sir?"

His eyes opened slowly revealing dark irises, struggling to focus on the source of the voice, though she was not a foot from him. "Help…me…" He whispered from cracked lips, the pained expression on his face evidence that it hurt him to even speak.

"Oh shit…" She swore, reaching for his shirt, lifting the fabric aside. Definitely a gunshot, close range… maybe even a shotgun. The nearest hospital was not for miles, and he did not look good… She had no choice. "I'm going to need you to help me out. My house is not far from here." She spoke loudly and clearly, pointing with on hand into the distance, where she could see her house, and its surrounding out buildings. He acknowledged her faintly with a nod, dark hair plastered to his clammy skin.

Gripping him under the arms, she managed to haul him to his feet. Thank god for manual labour, she thought, as the task was not as much of a strain as perhaps it would have been four years ago. One arm holding one of his draped about her neck, the other hooked around his waist, they set off together, one slow step at a time, out of the cover of the tree and out under the broken sky.

_-Part three-_

With each step, she was certain she was losing him; so it was with immense relief that she sighed on reaching the threshold of her house. Balancing some of his weight on her hip as she struggled to find her keys in her pocket, she nudged the door open and they sidled inside, like an odd crab. Getting him up the stairs seemed like the hardest part, struggling to overcome gravity. From the hallway they almost fell towards the spare room, and with her last ounce of strength she struggled to lower him with some amount of gentleness to the mattress. He was barely conscious; she didn't doubt that he had struggled to remain so for their entire arduous journey. Pressing her fingers to his forehead, she found him burning up a fever. Nibbling on her lip and she battled with indecision, she felt that the best course of action would be to get him into dry clothes. Or at least out of his wet ones.

She tossed his coat, shirt and pants out into the hallway after removing his muddy boots, not allowing herself to despair about the state of her floors _just_ yet. Rushing downstairs to heat the kettle once more, she shut the still-open door of the kitchen to the elements, trapped in the silence of her kitchen. God, what was she doing? He could be dangerous-- what was she doing bringing a strange, near-dead man into her house? Of course, she told herself, she couldn't have left him to die…

Ignoring her moral battle for the moment, she rummaged around in her medicine cupboard. Antibiotics-- for a Chocobo yes, but still the same thing. Surely it would help to stave of infection… that is if the wound weren't already septic; she hadn't looked at it yet. Aspirin for the fever, and perhaps a less conventional medicine, Whiskey. If she could get him to drink it. If it were a shotgun wound, there would no doubt be shrapnel in that wound. All of these things gathered into her arms, she deposited them at the top of the stairs, returning to the kitchen at the sound of the kettle's insistent whistle.

Armed with hot water, clothes, bandages and whatever else she felt would be useful, she set to work. It had started to heal at least, and from what she could tell, it looked as though he had removed some of the parts himself, if the tiny cuts on his fingertips were anything to go by. Using a pair of tweezers, she painstakingly removed a few more pieces, her nose wrinkled at the scent of his blood; earthy, metallic, and reminding her all too vividly of how fragile life was. She rubbed his skin down with the hot cloth, cleaning around the wound, glad at least that he was not awake to feel any pain. Working quickly, she set about dressing his wound, winding a length of bandage around him as many times as she could whilst, holding his heavy, lifeless torso upright.

She still had a lot of her husband's old clothes in a disused dresser in the hall; they were useful for farm work, and sometimes, they still held his scent, she couldn't bring herself to throw them out-- and they seemed to fit well enough for their purpose. She worked him into a cotton shirt, and some loose pants, before she positioned the pillows behind his head and tucked many blankets about his body, feeling at his forehead worriedly. It was the fever she was troubled most about.

Ensuring the curtains were closed, she collected the now bloodstained water and cloths and exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. After disposing of these things, she cast a look at herself; covered in mud, and not to mentioned blood, she peeled away her clothes and tossed them into the washing machine in her pantry along with the clothes she had found him in, before taking her second shower of the day. Only then, as she unbolted the bathroom door, peering out warily in her hall wrapped in only a towel, did she realise she had not seen Scout in a while.

After dressing, a small-scale search of the house found him huddled by the front door, the rabbit she had abandoned earlier lying at his side. She reached down to fuss him, kissing the tip of his snout. "I'm sorry Scout. After all the effort you went to, to get this for me." He gave a small bark, his tongue flicking out to wet her cheek.

Suddenly painfully aware of her rumbling stomach, she felt that perhaps she should get to cooking something. It was dark for five o' clock, but it would take a while to skin the rabbit… Twisting her hair into a rough braid, and fastening an apron about her waist, she set to work.

_-Part four-_

Burning. Burning heat and blinding light. He had been trying so hard to find evidence. But they had tried harder to hide it. They didn't want him to know, didn't want him to reveal their secret. He was in the right place, at the right time. But it was all wrong. All wrong.

He'd managed to get away from them, but they'd laughed, told the shadows that he would not last the night, and had given up looking for him. But he'd lived, made it so far, until the heat, the burning had been too much.

And he'd given up.

_-Part five-_

She returned upstairs periodically to check on her unusual house guest; sweating, mumbling incoherently as he fought his fever. It was frustrating and agonising to realise that she could do nothing for him. She needed to keep him warm, he'd been out in the rain. It was all she could do to soothe his forehead with a cold flannel. Once, she had been sure he had looked at her, fixed her with his unusual eyes, but then the moment had passed, his lips still, suddenly silent. Leaving a glass of water by his bed should he wake, she shut the guest bedroom door softly for the last time that night, retreated to her own bed, Scout at her heels. The dog curled up by the door this time, his nose never far from the crack underneath it.

The rain had been battering her house for some time now, and she wondered if she would need to make some repairs to the roof tomorrow. She would certainly have to work hard to complete the jobs she had neglected to do today; she had been rather occupied to say the least. The house was filled with the scent of stew, and she wondered if that was the reason for Scout's nose twitching at the door.

She should have been used to the strange noises her house made in the night; it was an old farmhouse, made from wooden timbers, with wood floors and ancient, though recently repaired plumbing. It had _always_ made noises. Though where once it had been a comfort to her, now it served to keep her ill at ease. The rain lashing at her windows were fingertips, grasping to reach inside, the wind was laughter, screams; the floorboards creaking and shifting were the footsteps of her acquired guest, crossing the hall to her bedroom…

_No, Tifa_! She chastised herself. _You don't have anything to worry about_. She was the one with the shotgun, leant against the wall by her bed. Her husband had used it for hunting, and had kept it for security. Never once though, had she had to use it for that reason. Under her pillow, too, was an old fashioned silver revolver, though it was anything but hers. She had taken it from the pocket of her patient's jacket, and had thought it best to hold onto it for safekeeping. At least until the time came when she would discharge him from her home.

Well into the night, when her exhaustion finally caught up with her, her fingers buried in her cat Aristotle's fur, she fell asleep. Scout, however, stayed awake. Watchful, listening.

_-Part six-_

She jerked awake rather abruptly the following morning, staring suspiciously around her room as though something had woken her, though only her cat and her dog were there to give her curious stares. Nudging Aristotle from her bed so she could shake out her sheets, she tossed open her window to let in the fresh, rain-scented air from the night before. The duck pond looked a little swollen from what she could tell, and the muddy path was now more like a lake-path. She tied a thin cotton dressing-gown around herself and shuffled into her slippers before tearing a brush through her long brown hair, in an attempt to bring order to it.

The hallway was eerily still, and she found herself holding her breath as she crossed it, praying that the man she had left sleeping yesterday had survived the night. The air in the room was still, filled with a scent she associated with illness. She checked his temperature; cooler, and he was still breathing. Satisfied, she opened a window before retreating once more.

At the front door, she slipped out of her slippers and struggled into her mud-caked wellingtons in the hope of retrieving an egg or two from the Chickens. She left the back door open as she stumbled out, surveying the damage of last night's weather. No roof tiles seemed to be out of place; that was good at least; no trapeze-like antics for her, and comedy moments featuring hammers and enlarged thumbs, thanks very much.

She apologized to the gabbling chickens as she plucked out two freshly laid eggs, returning to the kitchen at the side of the house, filled with a sudden sense of satisfaction. The sun was shining, there wasn't a dead man upstairs, and there was no roof to repair. Triple win, as far as she was concerned.

She was struggling to tug off her boots again at the door, her long curtain of hair falling in her face when she saw him.

"Shit!" She screamed, dropping one of the eggs rather unceremoniously on the doorstep, which Scout proceeded to clean up for her. All this, on one leg, clutching a single egg.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" He raised his hands in defence, squinting in the rays of sunlight bursting in through the windows.

"Don't-worry-about-IT!" With one last furious kick, she freed her feet again. "How are you feeling?" She placed the egg down on the counter, approaching him tentatively.

"Alive." He was a little wan-looking, his eyes sunken, though that was at least an improvement on yesterday, when she had found him. "How did I… Where am I?"

"You are in my farmhouse, in the Kalm Grasslands." He frowned, mouthing her words with disbelief. "I found you about a mile away. I had to carry you here."

"Thank you. I… I owe you my life, it seems," He bowed his head slightly, watching her as she turned to address the kettle. "Miss…"

"Mrs Tifa Wallace-was-Lockheart," She smiled, getting two mugs from the cupboard for the first time in four years, almost.

"Mrs Wallace, I cannot thank you and your husband--"

"He's dead. I'm a widow." She corrected, folding her arms as she leant against the counter. "But no need to feel guilty, it's been four years, and I've managed on my own." She chuckled at his sudden loss for words.

"My name is Vincent."

"Right, well Vincent, breakfast will be in about half an hour, so…" She gestured for him to follow her. He did so, at a respectful distance. "The shower is here, I've left you some clean towels, shaving things if you wish, and some clothes-- though they may dwarf you-" she chuckled, eyeing the gaping arms of the T-shirt he was currently wearing. "My husband was six foot tall and almost as wide, and I haven't had the chance to wash yours yet."

"I… thank you."

"Don't worry about it. Get a move on, or Scout will end up eating your other egg, too."

With that she turned and headed back downstairs, leaving a dazed Vincent behind, clutching a towel and a stack of clothes.

_-Part seven-_

The heat of the water had never felt so good, even permeating his fresh bandages, soothing the healing wound beneath. So he'd survived. Not died. _Survived_. He could continue with his work, with his quest for justice. A shotgun bullet at point blank range couldn't stop him. So why should anything else?

He scrubbed and scrubbed at his dead skin, until it was pink again, bringing back life to it. Drying himself down briskly, he changed into the set of clothes that Tifa had provided him with. When he'd woken in a strange room, in a strange house, he had listened out for movement, voices. Heading downstairs, he had heard a woman mumbling to herself, and found her battling to remove her boots at the front door of her kitchen, a cascade of chocolate hair lit amber by the early morning sun. He'd noted her nightdress, her bare legs beneath it, before she had seen him.

This woman, this widow, had saved him. Though she looked small, not strong enough to carry him. Nor did she look old enough to have been married, and to have lost her husband; not a day over thirty, he would like to wager. Then again, some said he didn't look old enough to have gone through what he had. Not a widower, but close enough. She had been a victim, just like the others. They had all deserved another chance. But were not given one.

Washed and dressed, Vincent exited the bathroom, stepping over something furry lying in his way; a cat, that fixed him with a single, golden eye before darting down the stairs ahead of him, tail raised.

"Ah, Confucius!" She addressed the cat, now sat mewling at her ankles. "I was just wondering where you'd got to. For a cat with one eye, you do enough spying for one with two."

"Confucius?" Vincent asked aloud, stepping into the warm, sunny kitchen. He noted that it was orderly, clean, painted lemon yellow, dominated by a scrubbed oak table and sturdy chairs.

"He looks like a scholar, don't you think?" Tifa asked him, smiling softly as she placed a mug of steaming tea down on the table's surface. "Please sit down. I'd hate for you to lose anymore colour from your face."

"This is a farm?" He asked, peering out of the open door. He could see a collection of white feathered ducks waddling around in the yard, and he swore that he'd heard the call of a chocobo, from somewhere.

"Yes. It used to be bigger, but I couldn't manage it alone." She set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast down in front of him, before joining him at the table. "Are you feeling well?"

"Oh, yes. I took the pills you left for me. How… how long was I asleep?"

"Since around 5pm yesterday evening, and it is now…" She craned her neck to better view the clock, "Ten in the morning."

"Wow. I don't think I've ever slept that long."

"If I may ask, why were you… what happened to you?" At her words, his expression became more solemn, regarding her carefully as he chewed.

"I was… I was caught off guard, let's just say. I should not have been so careless. But I'm sorry-- It wouldn't be a good idea to say anymore."

"Oh. Well, as you wish." She sipped tentatively at her too-hot tea, blowing out over the surface. "It's funny you should say that to me. That's what my husband used to tell me, before he went away to work." She shook her head gently from side to side, her soft brown locks falling into her face.

"His job being…?"

"A miner. Not far south from here."

"Hm." He sealed his lips mentally. Not those mines again. Another life ruined by lies, by deceit. Why couldn't things be easier?

"You look a little pale… " She leant closer to scrutinise him. "Perhaps you should go back to bed?"

"No, no. Actually, I shouldn't intrude on your hospitality any longer, I-" He scraped his chair back, his plate only partially cleared, his knuckles whitening. "I should probably leave."

"You can't leave! Not after that wound!" She protested, rising also. "I think it might be--"

"Please, it would be best if-" He could see the open door to his right, the only thing between him and running for it being the woman he owed his life to, currently frowning, her hands on her hips. Then his vision started to blur. He swore, clutching for any surface, trying to steady himself.

"I don't think you should be going anywhere," She said softly, her arm at his waist. "Come on, I'll take you back to bed."

Unable to fight it, to shift his nausea and his sudden weakness, he complied, finding himself returning to sleep as he became settled back amongst the sheets. Tifa watched from the doorway, chewing her lip. "Keep your eye on him, Confucius." She told the grey cat, still loitering at her heels. He gave a deep meow, before hopping up onto the bed and settling himself there, his single golden eye fixed on the bed's only other occupant, before it slid shut.

-Fin Episode 1-

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

I've planned on this being three parts, perhaps four. Let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Here's chapter 2! Please leave me a review!

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Chapter 2

_-Part 1-_

When she peeled away the bandages, she almost retched, her lunch threatening to come back up the way it came. How could it have gotten this bad? He'd bled through afresh- she wondered if sudden movements combined with getting wet in the shower had anything to do with it. She held her breath, steadying herself for a few seconds. Come on, Tifa, Barrett's come home with worse before now…

She leant over the festering wound, cotton wool soaked through with the best kind of disinfectant she could think of. Ethanol. If he stayed unconscious through this, she'd be worried. She pressed the cotton down firmly, his abdomen muscles spasming as his body reacted to the sudden, painful and unwelcome stimulus. He groaned, his head moving slowly from side to side, though he did not wake. She swapped the dirtied ethanol pad for another clean one, working to remove the outer layer of the healing skin that seemed to be the root of the problem. Bacteria were eating their way into him, and were most definitely in his bloodstream. He'd taken then antibiotics she had set aside for him the day before, and she'd managed to get him to swallow another today. Once the putrid smell had been lessened, she bound him again, this time tighter, to ward off any other types of would-be pathogens.

Her patient had now been sleeping, though rather fitfully for another day and half. She was glad that at least in his brief time of waking, he'd managed to eat _something_.

Two days. She was starting to worry now. She had toyed with the idea of calling a doctor from the town, but that would involve explaining the circumstances in which she had found him, and she was almost certain he wouldn't want that. There was something about him that she knew was different. He had been up to something, and he didn't want her to know what. Just like Barrett would dismiss her inquiries. It would be best, he said, if you didn't know. When she had gotten upset, he would place his large, rough hands on her shoulders, and tell her it was only to stop her worrying.

Though of course, worry she did.

_-Part 2-_

Barrett Wallace had been the largest man she had ever met, even when she had first met him, ten years ago. He'd been taller than her easily by one and a half feet, and it was due to this severe difference that she'd thought herself below his notice. He was big, yes, but he was gentle, she had learned quickly on becoming more acquainted with his character.

She'd always lived on a farm, ever since she could remember. Her parents had owned one, though it was much further from the place where she currently lived. Barrett's farm had been close by, about a mile or so, though his family had only moved there whilst she was attending senior school. Most of the kids there weren't bothered about their education. It was pretty clear where they'd end up- working on their parents' farms, inherit their parents' farms, marry and have kids on their parents' farms…

It was a farming community, with a single thing in mind. She didn't mind it so much, but she was perhaps the only person in her classes who actually bothered to read outside of them; Plato, Aristotle, Darwin; she'd added their works to her list of books, of which she would purchase with the small allowance her parent's granted her each week, or her father would surprise her with a new volume occasionally. She loved reading. She lived for it.

Often, when the kids in her class would throw parties in one of their parents' barns, she wouldn't go. She could think of better things to do that fool around with the boys, like the other girls did. She wanted to learn more about the lives of Florence Nightingale, Anne Frank, Samuel Pepys; not what Tommy was like at kissing, or how well-endowed Jim actually was.

Occasionally though, her father would persuade her to attend a few; it would be good for her, he said, pinching her open book delicately between his fingers and inserting the bookmark, to mix with the other kids. Even if she didn't like them, it would teach her valuable social lessons. He was proud of her, for being smart, for being studious. He wanted her to get a real job in the city; that's why he would often buy her books as gifts perhaps more often than he should. He wanted better for his eighteen-year old daughter.

So off she went, rather begrudgingly mind, dressed in denim shorts and an oversized checked shirt, her boots making a delicate crunch with each step over the grassy fields. She was not totally at a disadvantage though, she thought to herself; for in her satchel, along with the bottles of beer her father had bid her take along, was her favourite book. She'd take J.R.R. Tolkien over Jim's male anatomy any day. The only anatomy she was interested in, was Grey's.

The barn was impressively laid out, she'd thought; glinting fairy lights, a row of hay bales stacked around the periphery of the room at waist height. There were tables filled with food and drink, to which she added her contribution, and loud rock music filled the open space. She stepped over a stray chicken to reach the back wall. She'd arrived early, so she could establish herself in the corner with her book, before she was spotted by too many people.

That's when Barrett had blundered in. He was bigger than all the kids there, but he wasn't necessarily the smartest, she recalled fondly. Their eyes had met over the pages of her novel; his a deep warm brown, like chocolate, hers not dissimilar, though shot through with amber. She'd thought nothing off him; except that he was dark-skinned, a beautiful rich coffee that she came to appreciate later, and that he looked like he'd worked on the farm since a young boy.

"Come on, Tifa, get your nose out of the book will you?"

It was eleven in the evening; the stars were out, the chickens were almost purring in their sleep, and the party was in full swing. She took the currently unfurling events to be normal; Sarah was currently making out with Joshua, and Jimmy and Lucy were doing things she didn't really want to think about in the corner. It was Paul who addressed her now, snatching the book from her grasp to scrutinise its' pages.

"What the hell is Kha-zad-um?" He scowled down at the open page, snatching the book out of her reach whenever she went to grasp for it.

"It's a bridge in the Dwarven Halls of- Moria, but you wouldn't know, because I bet you can't read!"

Her distress was becoming more evident now; the book in question was old, and had belonged to her father before her. She would hate for something to happen to it. "Please, give me my book back."

"No, I think you should learn a lesson." He tossed it over his shoulder, the pages crumpling a little on the floor as it fell fanned pages first. "Besides, I thought you'd come here tonight to see me?" Paul was grinning at her then, not really seeing the horrified look in her eyes. Nor did he see Barrett stoop to pick up the book from the hay-dusted ground.

"Leave her alone, Paul." She looked up at him, exuding gratitude and 'save me' vibes at the same time. He handed her back her now slightly crumpled paper back.

"What are you gunna do about it, Wallace?" Paul had turned and squared up to him, which of course, going by their sizes alone was a big mistake.

The nineteen year old Barrett chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest."I don't think you should embarrass yourself in front of the ladies." When Paul paid no heed to his warning, Barrett lifting him from the ground as easy as if he were a bottle of beer. He then deposited him in a chair, rather roughly she noted. "If Tifa wants to read a book, let her. At least one of us isn't a loser."

Then he'd turned back to her, gesturing for her to follow him. He said nothing for a moment as she almost jogged to keep in step with his immense strides, leading her out of the barn and off Paul's land. "The Lockheart farm is this way, right?" His voice was subdued, and she maintained the notion that perhaps he was a little shy. "I can't stand these dumb-ass farmers- no offence."

She'd laughed at his blunder, hitching her bag higher on her shoulder.

"Here- let me carry that." She would have refused, but she was so touched by his gentility, she did not wish to refuse him the privilege.

In the walk home, she'd learned he was a city boy, who'd been brought to live with his mother's new partner. He'd been teased a bit about that at school she knew. "At least your Mother knows what she wants. I'll bet anything half the women around here are stuck in a marriage they no longer want to be in."

"Well, uh, thanks, I guess?" He'd scratched the back of his head, running his hand along the tight braids that patterned his scalp.

"Your hair- who did that for you?"

"Uh, my Mom actually," He chuckled, a flush rising up his neck. "Geez, I'm trying not to look like a Mamma's boy here."

"It's beautiful," she observed, reaching out to touch one. "I bet I'd look ridiculous if I did my hair like that."

"I doubt you would look ridiculous in anything."

He paused at the porch on noticing her father reading by the light of the electric lamp outside the front door.

"You're back early." He observed, removing his glasses and rising from his chair to greet her. He shook Barrett's large hand, "My gods, they said you were tall- you're the Wallace kid, right?"

Her father had immediately liked him; he perhaps wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, but it was evident from the off that he held Tifa with a certain high regard. He would stand teasing about his skin colour, or his unusual hair style, but he was quick to anger if someone were to tease him about his mother, or if someone were to remark on his relationship with Tifa- for they were becoming fast friends.

She would lend him books, though he took perhaps twice as long to read them, and he would enjoy talking it through with her, listen to her explain any difficult concepts. He was in awe of her intelligence; most of the other girls at school were more interested in him for other things, but it seemed Tifa was totally without prejudice. She did not judge him, or his family; in fact, he couldn't believe it when his mother had taken to her so quickly.

"I thought no girl would be good enough for my boy," she said once over dinner. He had cast a wary glance at Tifa over the table. "But you, you smart."

And she was. Smarter than he could ever hope to be. Too smart for him.

He knew she could do great things. He knew she would go to the city, make a fortune, marry another equally smart white man, and have perfect kids. Him? He'd just stay on the farm- where could he go?

"Barrett, I can't help but notice you've been acting a little weird recently," She admitted to him one day. They had gone for a long walk, and were cooling their feet in the lake. "Like, distant. Have I done something wrong?"

"Uh… aw, god. I just worry that your gunna go off and be all successful and…"

"And?"

"-Forget about me." He could see her slender ivory-coloured thighs stretched out under the water, beside his russet skinned limbs.

"Why would I do that?" She frowned, turning her body towards him, her pale hand reaching out to touch his face.

"I dunno, I just… I worry. Because I might never open my damn mouth and say what I want to say…"

"Well, tell me now- what do you want to say?" Her face was so close, her perfect features all aglow in the evening sun.

"Aw, hell." And he'd kissed her, told her he was crazy about her. That night, she had given herself to him, for the first time. And he knew then, he _knew_- Wherever she was going, so was he.

_-Part three-_

___There are two tragedies in life_. One is to lose your heart's desire. The other is to gain it, as Bernard Shaw had said. When she had read that, she had only been able to postulate it's intended meaning. Though when she married Barrett, she perhaps understood what Shaw had been getting at, even if her understanding was not orthodox.

Barrett wasn't suited to the life of an academic, and never would be. She knew that for sure. He'd gotten himself a respectable job working at the local quarry, and was earning a good wage. She was proud of him.

Though he worried for her. She _was_ made to be an academic. But in order to pursue her studies, she would have to leave for the city, a long way from where he currently worked. She would tell him softly, whenever he protested, that if all else failed, she could study from home. There were ways and means to achieve the same end. Pacified, they continued living in Kalm, on the small farm they had purchased as their first home together, the home she still occupied to this day.

The farm had been a wreck at first, to say the least, but Barrett had a vision. His enthusiasm was a little difficult to resist, and soon she shared it, helping him repair the roof, the pipes, the floors; pretty much everything. Then the barn needed repairing, the stables were barely operable, and the pond needed digging out. Three years it took them, to get it to what she considered to be a habitable state. There was still much to do; wallpapering, painting the wood work, and so on, but they were things they could do gradually over time.

The house had three bedrooms; one for them, another small guest room, and a second room that she could envision being a nursery. Lying by his side one night, gazing at the peeling walls, (a problem they hadn't got around to rectifying yet), she asked him whether he would consider children.

"I dunno Tif," He'd grunted, rolling onto his back. "Work's dryin' up at the quarry. Maybe if I get a new job, an' I know I can take care of you right, let alone the dog, and a baby, too."

She'd smiled weakly, knowing that he was right. Of course, she wouldn't want to have to struggle financially. It was tough enough as it was, both mentally, as well as putting a strain on their relationship, to juggle work and home, when the 'home' part was perhaps just as physically draining. She didn't want to put pressure on him.

Then of course, he had taken the job at the mines, on temporary basis, until he'd proven he was capable enough. "See Tif? Told ya things would work out," He told her one night, dropping his work bag just inside the kitchen door and tugging off his dirtied shirt. He'd been away for a few days, working straight through with long hours, in order that he could have longer weekends a home with her. It was hard to get used to, but she figured it would work out alright in the end.

But it hadn't. Two weeks later, she'd been waiting for him to come home, when she'd received the call. A terrible accident, nobody could have foreseen it. Such a terrible loss of life…

Suddenly, she was alone, a widow, living in a house that was in much need of care and attention- things she didn't not feel she had capacity to give any longer. So for a months, she'd given up.

_-Part four-_

She'd taken to reading her book at his bedside. She felt better settled in the armchair in the corner, where she could keep a constant watch over him. As the day passed into night, she only became increasingly distressed. He had to wake soon, and eat, lest he waste away. Whenever she would check his bandages, she noted the way his ribs were starting to show beneath his pale skin. Though she also couldn't help noting that he seemed to have enough muscle in that region to keep him going for a little longer.

_In prolonged periods of starvation_,She recalled from her Biology books, _if the body has no more glycogen stores, it will breakdown muscle to form Ketone bodies; an energy source used before the body will begin to degrade bone. _She hoped it wouldn't come to that.

The following afternoon, she was relieved to find him stirring. He opened his eyes, blinking slowly in the sunlight bursting through the window.

"Tifa?" His voice was croaky, lips cracked from dehydration. She helped him upright, silently handing him a glass of water.

"You aren't doing so good, are you?" She asked him softly, seating herself on the edge of the bed.

"I guess not." He returned the glass to her half empty, which she set down, returning her attention to him. "How long?" It was painful to speak, his voice rasping and croaky from dehydration and disuse.

"Almost two days now." She felt his forehead. A lot cooler this time. It seemed he had fought off the fever. "I think the antibiotics may be working."

"I cannot thank you enough for this. It's not often you encounter such kindness in this world." He told her with a note of sadness to his voice. She maintained the notion that perhaps others had not helped him, where she had.

"I do all I can. Would you like something to eat perhaps?"

"That would be great. I'm starving."

"Yes, literally, I think."

In no time, she had supplied him with a bowl of reheated stew, which he consumed with surprising fervour, and she was pleased that he seemed to enjoy it enough to ask- rather sheepishly, mind- for more. His appetite apparently sated, she promptly drew him a fresh, hot bath, supplying him with fresh towels, and his own clothes, having been washed and dried out on the line in the sun.

He scrubbed away at his skin again, listening to the plumbing gurgling around him, picking out the sounds that had become somewhat familiar to him since his small stint in Tifa's farmhouse; drifting in through the window, that had been opened to allow the steam out. The chickens squawked and clucked out in the yard, Tifa's sheepdog was barking over the occasional indignant quack of a duck, and even less frequently, the _'Kweh'_ of a chocobo. He'd have to ask her about that.

The unfamiliar scent of the foreign household washed over him as he rubbed himself dry with the freshly laundered towels. It was funny how one associated a washing powder with an individual, though he guessed that it was sort of personal, almost like a fingerprint. It was in the bed sheets, the scent on the air, and even in his clothes, now that she had washed them for him. He was impressed she'd managed to get out the bloodstains. The smell made him think of her, the woman he barely knew, who had saved his life- the woman who was currently humming to herself, somewhere beneath the open window.

Feeling a little more comfortable in his own clothes, and considerably less fragile since he had eaten, he made his way downstairs, locating his boots at the front door. He stepped outside, sharply inhaling in the fresh air. He found her in the vegetable patch, still humming as he had heard her before.

"Ah, you look much better now!" She huffed, struggling to get to her feet from her place knelt amongst the cabbages. Automatically, he outstretched a hand, which she took after only a brief moment of hesitation. He had enough strength to haul her to her feet, at least. "I should think we shall dine on fresh vegetables later," she announced, dusting herself down. "But you should go back to bed."

"Wha-" He started to protest at finding her hand taking him firmly by the elbow and leading him indoors.

"You need to rest. I don't want to see you up for at least another day," She let go of him, tapping her foot on the ground at they came to stop.

"But the weather is so nice- could I not at least sit?" She considered him for a time, before nodding gently, releasing a defeated sigh. "Alright. But I mean it. No moving."

"Yes ma'am." He found himself deposited into an old rocker by the front door, directly in the sun. She had bid him help himself to her bookshelves, and before them he had been torn for choice. For a farmer, she was well read. Chaucer, Keats, Wilde, Shakespeare, as well as Tolkien, Edith Wharton, Austen, Caroll; not to mention Aristotle, Plato and other philosophers he'd not really read much into. He'd settled for Keats, plucking at the delicate spine, leafing through the well read pages with a tender smile.

"These books are all yours?" He asked from his chair outside, calling to her across the yard where she worked in the vegetable patch.

"Yes. My husband was never one for books, though he did try." She was reverently plucking weeds out of a patch of what appeared to be onions. He did not want to push the subject of her husband- from what little he knew about her, she seemed to be a strong, independent woman, but he wasn't comfortable with talking to her about such things. He remained silent, leafing through the well-read book he held in his hands.

At the sound of a chocobo call, it returned to him. "Is that a chocobo I hear?" He called to her, watching her as she wiped her forehead on her forearm.

"Yes." She got to her feet, cracking her spine into place. She peeled off her gardening gloves and tossed them into the dirt, trudging across the muddy yard. He found the image of her endearing; a lemon-yellow dress spotted with daisies, her green wellingtons, with muddy knees. "I'll permit you to leave the chair just this once. I am incredibly proud of my chocobo."

_-Part five-_

His nostrils were assaulted by the scent of straw and the musty odour of heated tin. The sun was beating down on the roof, and the air was still and humid. The stables looked a little ramshackle; holes in the corrugated sides had been patched over with small sheets of scrap metal. Most of the pens stood empty, save for the largest one, located at the far end of the stable.

"This, is Kane." She stopped, her rubber boots scuffing the concrete beneath the dusting of hay. Vincent felt humbled by the immense beast he saw before him. Black glossy feathers, a shining golden beak, and clever, sharp eyes of chocolate brown. The immense flightless bird _kweh_'d in recognition, lowering it's immense head to butt it affectionately against her shoulder. She scratched the feathers of his neck, and he seemed to purr in appreciation.

"He is a black chocobo," He stated unnecessarily, taking a cautious step closer. Kane fixed him with one gleaming eye, stomping its clawed leg in agitation.

"It's alright, Kane," she soothed. "This is Vincent, and he is a friend- he is a little protective. If you show him a little respect he'll usually suffer your presence."

He gave the great obsidian-feathered bird a slight bow, maintaining eye contact. The movement sent a twinge of pain up his side. "He is magnificent."

"I bred him myself. I had to sell the others when Barrett died. I couldn't afford or manage to keep them all."

"Barrett?" Vincent frowned a little. Where had he seen that name before?

"That was my husband, sorry. Barrett Wallace." Her fingers still idly stroking Kane's beak, she frowned across at Vincent.

"Do you know him?"

"No- No. Sorry, I thought…" He shook his head. "Actually, perhaps getting up had been a bad idea… I'll, I think I'd better go back to bed."

Frowning, Tifa watched her acquired guest stumble out of the stables into the sunlight again, his dark hair gleaming in the yellow sunlight. Kane nudged her shoulder, vying for her attention. "Who are you, Vincent Valentine?"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

So, sorry this is quite slow to come out. I'm trying to work out where this is going. Please PLEASE leave me a review, it really cheers me up. I need it right now, what with exams and all! Show me the love people!


	3. Chapter 3

I've had this chapter in my mind for a long time actually, it was just getting it down. Sorry it has been a while. Please leave me a nice review!

Chapter 3

_-Part 1-_

For the next day or so, Tifa did not speak to her acquired patient, though she could not comprehend what had rendered him rather suddenly speechless. Had she done, or said something wrong? Wracking her brains, she replayed their last conversation over in her mind. At some mention of her husband's name, she had seen a change in his demeanour- as if, perhaps, he had put two and two together... and he didn't like the answer, somehow.

Now all she had to do was wait for the right time to quiz him.

_-Part 2-_

A day later, she felt it was a good time to remove his dressing. Better to get some air to it, she said. And perhaps, he should take a bath, to scrub at the places that his bandages had previously not allowed him to. Taking the hint, he locked himself in the bathroom, wishing to remove it himself, to preserve what dignity he had left. Flinching only a little as he cut at the linen, he took a deep breath, preparing himself for what was to come. Most likely in the several days since his bandages had been renewed, the healing flesh will have knitted itself to the linen. There would most likely be some bleeding, though the worst had passed, she had assured him earlier.

She was onto him, he knew. In his moment of laxness, he had not had the time to assemble his expression. He had realised too late what his face had given away. And it was only a matter of time. He had lingered here too long, content to allow this kind-hearted woman to nurse him back to health with her gentle care, and her wonderful cooking.

But no more.

He couldn't linger here. It only put them both in danger. He needed to make a call. And he needed to do it sooner rather than later.

_-Part 3-_

"It looks like a storm is coming in." She said softly, peering out of the window. They were seated in the living room, a fire crackling in the hearth to ward off the sudden chill. "I wouldn't advise making the trip to Kalm until tomorrow."

"Hm." He chose to remain silent, settled in an armchair with clean bandages and a book.

"Is something wrong?"

"No." He tried to look surprised, raising his head, furrowing his brow. For a moment, he thought she might have bought it; she chewed on her lower lip a little, her fingers toying with one of her loose chocolate curls, tugged neatly over her shoulder. Then she returned his frown.

"You know something."

"What?" His throat tightened considerably, though he resisted the urge to swallow. He had been trained to lie, to withstand interrogation. For almost two years, it hadn't broken him. It should not break him now. But could he lie to her, when he owed her so much?

"Earlier today, when I mentioned my husband… you looked… shocked. As if you knew him." She was standing in front of him now, her hands resting firmly on her hips, blocking out the light from the flames. Its glow set her periphery on fire.

"I did not know your husband."

"Barrett Wallace, a twenty-six year old miner from Kalm, killed in a mining accident four years ago. You do not know him?"

He looked her in the eyes, pushing the griping guilt aside at the sight of tears forming there. "No. I'm sorry."

"Hm. _I'm_ sorry. I guess I thought… I don't know what I thought." She turned away then, though he did not allow himself even an exhale of relief. Lying to her felt wrong.

"It's alright. I can't blame you for… being angry."

"Angry?" She paused at the window once more, peering without interest out into the darkening sky. "I'm not angry. Not anymore." Her pause was poignant, as if she wished to say something else on the matter. Her heavy sigh told she'd thought better of it. "I can drive you into town tomorrow. From there, you can make it on your own."

"I would not ask anything more of you. I… I suppose what I mean to say is…" He winced as he hauled himself to his feet, his healing wound throbbing dully. Her lips parted, she turned to face him, her forehead creasing gently as she considered him in his evident discomfort."Thank you for saving my life. When I get to Midgar, when I've sorted everything out, I will-"

"I'm not asking for anything." She flushed, her lips pulled into a tight line, turning her face half toward the window. The dancing firelight played upon her skin. "I couldn't just leave you there."

"I will repay you for your kindness." He found himself reaching for her hand, a gesture which earned him a wide-eyed stare, though she did not flinch away.

"I, I should probably go and um… take Scout out before it gets too dark." She said softly, warm amber eyes considering him, fingers relaxed in his palm. Then she was pulling away gently, sweeping out of the room leaving him feeling quite the fool. He did not move from the window, watching as she jogged across the yard bundled up in coat and scarf, Scout trotting faithfully at her heels.

He wondered if she knew full well that she would get caught out in the rain. Smiling to himself, he made his way into the kitchen, thinking that perhaps he should make himself useful in her absence. Dinner certainly was not going to cook itself.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_-Part 4-_

As she lay awake, listening to the sound of the rain lashing against her window pane, her fingers buried in the fur of Aristotle, curled up at her side, Tifa couldn't help but smile. She was full and content, thanks to a rather unexpected gesture from her unexpected house guest. She had wanted to avoid him, or rather, escape from the heat of that room; she did not want to believe it had nothing to do with the fire.

He was handsome, yes, and polite. She had enjoyed his company, though she chastised herself, thinking that she would feel that way about any company that was not of the animal kind. It was awfully lonely being a widow out in the Kalm grasslands, with no family, and no friends. She had been thinking for a while that perhaps she should give up on the farm- it was too big for her, an empty house with no way to fill the rooms. No other faces to see, or voices to be heard. She knew that perhaps it wasn't healthy. She was still young, and she knew full well what Barrett would say; she should get back out there, into the wide world, do what she had always wanted to do, that her marriage had perhaps not left room for.

But she couldn't. She saw his face in every room, in the doorways and on the stair. She missed his warmth beside her at night, his strong arms that could hold her so tightly. But she knew that nothing could ever bring him back. She wasn't old, by any means. She could still find love, couldn't she? Or could it find her? Well, it certainly wouldn't here, in the middle of nowhere.

With a burst of bitter laughter swallowed by her pillow, she realised that she was pathetic. Four years, and she hadn't moved; she was holding onto the same dream, a dream that was no longer possible, without him. Four years, and she had never quite realised just how dismal her existence here really was. She was living a ghost life, one that should have been, one that never would be.

Her pillow muffled her sobs now, as she thrust her face deeper into the cotton. Life had dealt her a tough hand, since her mother's departure, her father's death, and then the loss of her husband. Though she knew it was up to her to make things happen… if only she was strong enough.

The polite tap at her door made her tears stall upon her cheeks. Sniffing hurriedly whilst wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her night dress, she detangled herself from the cat and the bed sheets, opening her bedroom door. Vincent stood in the hall, fully dressed despite the fact that he had apparently retired to bed over an hour before. She had though perhaps he had heard her crying, and she wondered how he planned to offer her comfort, though upon reading his expression, that notion passed. His eyes were wary, alert, every muscle in his body tensed.

"Do you have my gun?" He asked, his tone clipped. He passed to her window, twitching the curtain.

"Um, yes it's safe. Why?" She had taken it upon herself to lock it away, when she had found it within the folds of his coat the night she had rescued him. She might be saving his life, but she knew to be cautious none the less. She felt a lot safer knowing the handgun was hidden away, and the shotgun was leaning against the wall in the corner. It was then that she cast her eyes towards it, stood gleaming innocently by the dresser.

"There's no time. Take the shotgun. Don't leave this room until I come and get you."

"Did you hear something?" She frowned, wondering how that could be possible over the din outside. Regardless, she made her way over to her drawers, digging around into she felt the cool handle of the revolver against her fumbling fingertips. It was loaded, though the safety was firmly on. She tossed it across the room, unsurprised when he caught it deftly.

"They have come for me. I shouldn't have stayed here so long." He checked it was loaded, before glancing up at her apologetically. "If there is no knock first, shoot whoever comes through the door," He told her, scrutinising the shells in the barrel before clicking it back into place with a flick of his wrist. He pressed in into her hands. Scout stood sentry by the door, her teeth bared. "I'll come back for you. If I don't make it… tell my sister I'm sorry. And that I tried."

"I will." She swallowed, her last view of him limited to a narrow strip, before he severed it, closing the door softly behind him. She should have known this would come- she had found him dying of a gunshot wound, it was pretty obvious someone wanted him dead. He could be dangerous for all she knew- but then, he had seemed to be sincere. Shaking her head, she stationed herself to the right hand side of the door, the shotgun raised, trained upon the door. And it was there that she waited.

_-Part 5-_

In fact, it had been Confucius who alerted him to their presence. The one-eyed cat had taken to sleeping curled up at the foot of his bed of late; he did not mind the company so much, and he found the furry thing to be an amicable lap warmer when reading. His ears had twitched, his oval pupils dilating rapidly, swallowing the pools of yellow. In a flash he was bristling at the windowsill, gazing unmoving out into the night. Shadows, moving by the stables. Indistinct shapes, but still, most definitely human. Most definitely a threat.

Vincent hadn't gotten around to undressing yet, which was just as well; he was going to go out to face them head on. He wouldn't be slaughtered like an animal. He couldn't allow her to come to harm either, not after all she had done, not after he had lied to her… He thought of her, her shotgun clutched in shaking hands, and hoped her aim was surer than her grip.

_They_ had to know he was here, who she was. Their search for his expected corpse had obviously turned up empty- they needed to make sure he was silenced forever. Well, he wasn't going to allow that. He had come so far, he was stronger now, and he had something to live for… His captors had taunted him with the knowledge that his sister, since his disappearance, had given birth to a son. He needed to make sure they were safe.

Pushing that all from his mind, he stole quietly down the stairwell, his eyes now well adapted to the dark. Even years without training, Vincent's instincts seemed to reawaken it all; his body was a weapon, albeit a little broken, still.

He reached the back door, crouching low, beneath the panes of glass. Stealing a glance outside, he could see no-one. Yet.

Taking a deep breath, begging his sister, as well as Barrett and his widow's forgiveness, he opened the door and stole out into dark and the rain, and let them swallow him.

_-Part 6-_

Her arm started to ache after a while, though she dare not lower her arm, nor her guard. Scout whimpered at her feet, though she shushed her quiet. Her thoughts and prayers were with Vincent, who had stepped into the shoes of her savoir. Her life was at risk, though she knew neither why, nor from whom. Nothing made sense anymore.

The minutes ticked by, though she was far from irked by the sound of the clock. It was comfortable, all she had over the _pat-pat-pat-pitpat-pat_ of rain drumming against the window at her back. It emphasised the stretch of time, the silence that seemed to heavy- why were there no gun shots?

She switched the shotgun to her other side to give her right arm some respite.

_Crack._ The gunshot burst rudely through the comfortable white noise. Was that his revolver? She could not be sure… Then it came again, and then again a minute or so later . She swore she could hear Troy crying out into the night at the disturbance. Scout bared her teeth, resting back on her haunches, muscles coiled and ready to spring. Her trigger finger twitched a little. The silence resumes, unperturbed by the gunshots. The clock ticked onwards.

_One minute… three minutes…_

How long should she wait here? Should she try to find that damned old PHS of Barrett's, to try and call for help? Even so, help was miles away from here, and it may not reach them in time.

_Vincent, where are you?_

Her heart leapt into her throat at the sudden creak upon the stair- the bottom one she was sure- her throat suddenly dry. She struggled to swallow, taking a deep, gasping breath before raising the shot gun barrel just a little higher, the butt resting firmly against her shoulder, braced, and ready.

Whoever it was seemed to be in no rush- their steps came slowly, as if they were exercising caution. God, she didn't want to die, frightened and alone in her own house.

"Come out and fight you bastard!" She screamed, desperately trying not to cry. "I'll blow you fucking head off!"

The floorboard outside her door groaned under the pressure of the person without. She inhaled, then exhaled deeply, readying herself to squeeze the trigger. Then came a gentle tap.

"Tifa, it's alright," The door creaked open, and she let the shotgun clatter to the floor, throwing herself across the room and into his waiting arms. She sobbed unashamedly into his sodden shirt, hysterical laughter rising in her throat. His fingers found their way into her hair, smoothing it aside to peer into her face. "You're safe for now, Tifa. It's alright."

"I thought… I didn't want to die."

"I know, shhh…" He rocked her gently, and she found herself breathing slowly now, her body relaxing into him, soothed by his scent. A little ashamed, she pulled away, eyes going wide as she noted a red bloodstain soaking through his shirt.

"Are you alright?" She wiped her eyes roughly on her sleeve, noting that the fabric was torn, though the wound was not deep- only a surface wound. Anything to avoid his gaze, though, after that display.

"It's fine. Listen to me, Tifa. We need to get to Midgar. Now." His fingers were a firm presence at her shoulders, holding her steady, and upright. She noted vaguely that his eyes were a beautiful colour; they were almost like rubies, with flecks of green the colour of dusty glass bottles. Beads of water were dripping periodically from his disorderly jet black hair.

"There is an old truck in one of the barns. I think it should get us there at least." She found herself saying. That old rust bucket hadn't been used in a while, but once she was warmed up, her roaring engines could rack up quite the speed.

"Pack some things."

"But my farm… The cats, and Troy… I can't just leave them here!"

He sighed apologetically. "I'm sorry Tifa. But I need to keep you safe. You cannot stay here. Bring Scout and the cats with you if you must, but… I can send someone for Troy once we get to Midgar." He noted her anguished demeanour, and understood it completely. Leaving everything she had ever loved, all she had left, behind, all because of him. "I promise."

"Florence was wild anyway…" she rambled, turning to face her wardrobe. "She'll manage on her own. Confucius is always bumping into things… and Aristotle…"

"Tifa. I'll get the truck up and running. Come and find me when you have packed. Keep your shotgun close. I'll shout up the word 'Troy' as a safety measure, so you know it's me."

"Alright," she agreed, gazing rather pathetically around her bedroom, unsure of exactly where to start.

"As soon as you can, Tifa," He repeated, holding her eyes until she nodded, defeated, before turning to jog back down the stairs, ignoring the dull ache in his arm.

There had been four of them. One clearly wasn't paying attention, and Vincent had snuck up behind him, slipped his hand over his mouth whilst using the other to drag the kitchen knife he had grabbed as an afterthought, along his throat. He let his body drop to the ground, blood gurgling from his throat. A swift, relatively silent death. Vincent thanked the rain. Two were stalking the periphery of the house, and Vincent managed to kill one before the second noticed. He'd squeezed off a clumsy shot though, only grazing Vincent's arm- his aim was not dampened: the bullet had gone through his eye and out the back of his skull. One more bullet had claimed the last, who had come running at the sound of gunfire.

He'd gone around the grounds to check for others, before returning to search the bodies. They wore all black, unmarked uniforms tell tale of mercenaries. Searching them turned up a PHS, and a datapad of some kind. It was encrypted though, he realised- he pocketed it anyway, thinking that the organisation would have better use for it that he, once he returned to them in Midgar, the main city. It was not a visit he was necessarily looking forward to.

Two years missing, an agent on a personal, unauthorised mission. He may not exactly be welcomed back. Anna would have missed him, though. She always did when they were apart- his twin, they'd barely spent time apart as children. Though his profession had kept him away for longer than he liked. She was all the family he had.

_Soon, Anna. Soon._ He told her silently, crossing the now empty yard. The rain was slowing now. He glanced back up at the house- the light was on in Tifa's room, and he could make out her shadow now moving frantically around inside, most likely gathering her important belongings.

Another life he was ruining- not that he hadn't contributed enough. He'd tried so hard to make amends, he wanted to tell her, but he had paid for it dearly. Two whole years, locked away, tortured by the thought that all he loved thought him dead.

But he was very much alive, and he had things he needed to straighten out- though in some cases, his revelations would only cause more grief. But he had to tell her the truth of it. She deserved that….

…She deserved all that she got. The bitch had _lied_ to him, she had tricked him, and because of her, because of his stupidity, he had lost everything. He had failed Barrett. But he'd gotten his revenge in the end. The object had been heavy- he couldn't recall what it was. She had struggled beneath him, _begging _him not to, but he had raised his arm, bringing it down again and again, until he barely recognised her face. Just as well, or he might have started to feel guilty.

Murderer's hands, and a murderer's conscious. _It was necessary. You had to do it._ He silently agreed, tugging open the heavy metal doors of the disused barn. The hinged groaned loudly in protest. The truck was hulking and rusty, but glancing under the hood, he noted that it was in excellent condition, especially for such an old model. The keys Tifa had given him jangled in his hands.

Murderer's hands… he seated himself behind the wheel.

_No. Avenger. not a murderer_. The engine roared to life.

_._. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

To be continued.


	4. Chapter 4

Just noticed I've been calling Scout a mixture of He and She. It's a HE, people. My bad.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Chapter 4

_-Part One-_

The vehicle was well equipped to deal with the ruts and potholes that spattered the winding country lanes, though still it would lurch periodically, and rather unexpectedly- it was only because of this that she was unable to at least feign sleep. His knuckles were white, gripping the steering wheel tightly, ruby eyes fixed firmly ahead, trained upon the long shafts of light cast before them by the headlamps.

He didn't say anything to her, which was perhaps just as well. Her throat was raw already, from the effort to keep her sobs silent. The _swish-swosh _of the windshield wipers, as well as the drone of the engine was a comforting enough blanket to hide within, though she was partly soothed by the feel of Confucius's fur at her fingertips, reaching through the wire of the carry case she had managed to persuade the old cat into, much to his protest. She moved her other hand from its numbing position resting against the cold window pane to wipe roughly at her cheeks where the tears were starting to sting. What was she going to do, when she got to wherever she was going?

Vincent was too lost in his own thoughts to even question Tifa about hers- how could he have not known? The name Wallace- she had introduced herself as Tifa Wallace! He should have put two and two together. Barrett had always talked of his farm, his wife, and even his chocobo for heaven's sake! At the time, the subject first and foremost on his mind was his survival. There hadn't been time to consider the consequences, the repercussions….

They had left the door open. He could hardly belief it. Numb, and strapped to a table, he still found the strength to writhe and wriggle free of his wrist restraints, with only a little burning from the leather straps. He'd grabbed his clothes, and after a little desperate searching, that shining silver revolver Tifa had recently returned to him. The door made the same sound that it made whenever someone had entered or left, though this time it was music to his ears. Two years, and he'd never really left that room; though there was no way he would have let himself forget the way out of this hell hole. With the revolver armed, his pockets filled with the bullets he had scavenged, he was not going to let anyone stop him…

Not even her. She had begged him not to run away, that they would find him, but he had seen her hand reach for her own weapon, beneath the folds of her lab coat. Lucy, the woman he had believed MIA for years, was alive and well… working for the enemy. It was because of her that he was here in the first place, or at least, _still_ here. He had intended it to only be a swift data retrieval mission, though he had stalled too long, thinking that she had been kept here against her will… but he was wrong. She lied, had deceived him, delayed him long enough for security forces to catch up with him. Then his so called in-and-out mission had turned into a indefinite imprisonment.

But now, he was free at least. He might not have the data he went in for, but he wasn't going to give up now, that's for sure.

A swift glance to his right found Tifa's face averted, any part of her expression hidden away behind her curtain of dampened hair. A soft whimper at his feet and then a cool kiss of a nose against his hand gripping the gearshift brought his attention to Scout. He'd been curled around Tifa's ankles silent for most of the journey.

"I know, buddy. We'll get you out soon, I promise." He allowed himself to reach out and scratch him behind the ears, before returning his attention to the road ahead.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_-Part two-_

It was still here; One bubble of safety amidst a ruined warehouse, a retreat for agents caught out in the field. It wasn't in use, otherwise the fingerprint scanner would not have allowed him inside.

Tifa had been sleeping, though she looked anything but rested. He quashed the sense of guilt at waking her- they were going somewhere warm and safe, where she could sleep in peace for a little while at least.

"What is this place?" She muttered a little gruffly once Vincent had secured the heavy metal door behind them. The lights above their heads buzzed on, humming softly as they warmed up.

"It's a military safe house. Agents in the field can access them at any time if they are in danger, or if they're caught out somehow."

"You're an agent?"

He said nothing for a moment, his pale lips pulled tight. "I would have said perhaps not, but the finger scanner would call me a liar. It seems even agents thought missing are still allowed access."

"And we are safe here?" She let Confucius out of his box, watching as he sniffed tentatively at his new surroundings. Scout seemed relatively happy with the place at least, his tail twitching as she sniffed hopefully at Vincent, who was busy rummaging inside a metal cabinet at the far end of the room.

"Nobody can get in from the outside, unless they happened to have a rather copious amount of TNT. We can stay here for as long as it takes to rest up. I can call for a pick up whenever you feel ready."

"We are staying here for the night?" She notes that there are several cots against the wall, ready to be pulled down to sleep on. Vincent disappears for a moment into a tiny room that she assumed is a bathroom.

"You would prefer to leave now?" He frowns as he re-emerges, setting down a bowl full of water for Scout. "Only I've been MIA for two years, and I don't doubt they'll want to question you, too. It'd be best if you got some rest first, believe me."

"Ok." Running a hand through her hair, she allows herself a moment of vanity; her hair is matted, damp, and probably looks about as bad as it felt. "Can I take a shower?"

He nods in the direction of the door. "Go ahead. You will find everything you need in there. Should I make something to eat?"

"Please, if you would." Tifa stepped around him to enter the small bathroom, aware suddenly of how cold she felt. A nice hot shower would do her good.

"Tifa… I'm… I'm sorry." He calls suddenly after her, and she turns to find him staring hard at the concrete floor. "I owe you... I'm sure you have… questions you want answering." He runs a hand through his hair, chancing a glance at her, stood awkwardly in the door. "And I promise you can have them. It's the least I can do for… for ruining everything."

"I… You haven't ruined anything, Vincent, you-"

"I _have_." He asserted his point with a heavy sigh. "I'll get started on the food, you just… take your time."

Dinner was relatively silent, and awkward. Dressed in black pants and a long sleeved top Vincent had found for her from the lockers, she felt at least refreshed after her hot shower. She had emerged red and glowing, to find a bowl of steaming soup waiting for her at the small table in the centre of the room. Vincent wasn't offering up any conversation, and she didn't feel she was strong enough to take up the challenge. Her hunger allowed her to focus solely on the task of eating, though when her bowl sat empty, she realised she couldn't avoid it any longer.

"You should… Shower too. You'll catch a cold or something." The compact safe room wasn't exactly warm either; the concrete was hard and frigid beneath her bare feet. "Or at least get out of those wet clothes…" She probed, when he showed no signs of moving, or even acknowledging that she had spoken.

He made a non-committing sound, before getting up slowly out of the chair and returning to the metal lockers and taking out fresh clothes. The door to the bathroom closed with a snap after him.

"What's going on, Scout?" She sighed, setting down her bowl so the apparently still-hungry collie could lick it clean.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_-Part three-_

When he emerged, she'd already laid out the cots, and having figured out the lighting system, turned out the noisy electric lights and lit a hurricane lamp, setting it upon the vacant table. She finished patting the last pillow and smoothing down the sheets before turning to him.

"I have thought about what questions I want to ask you," She ventured, seating herself on the edge of her cot, and drawing her legs up to wrap her arms around them. Confucius had settled himself at the foot of Vincent's, and so Vincent seated himself cross legged upon the mattress, burying his fingers in the cat's fur.

"What do you want to know?" He'd resigned himself to her questions, and wasn't really looking forward to the retelling of his story; he knew it'd have to have come out at some point, though. He may as well get it over with.

"Where were you, before I found you near death that day?"

Not too difficult. "I had been a prisoner at a nearby illegal research facility."

"A prisoner? Why? How long?" Her eyebrows had shot up at that. Well, at least he wasn't a convict.

"I believe I have been there for nearly two years- and I was a prisoner because I was not supposed to be there."

"But where? I know the area around Kalm and there are no buildings or anything that could house a research facility."

She was sure to be assembling the clues soon enough. "In the mines."

"The mines?" She stared at him aghast for a moment, before her expression darkened. "I knew you were hiding something from me. You knew Barrett all along, didn't you?"

She was furious. Not that he hadn't expected that, but… "I… I knew him. But I was protecting you. I… I should have left, as soon as I was able. I was putting you in danger, by staying."

"How did you know him?" Her voice was a deathly whisper. Did she think he had been responsible for his death?

"We… We worked together." This was going to be the hardest part, and only because he knew what it might do to her.

"Are you crazy? Barrett was just a miner! And he never mentioned you."

"Barrett wasn't a miner, Tifa." He said softly, unable to look her in the eye. "He was… we were partners. He was working for the government."

"No…" She shook her head slowly, standing upright suddenly, and beginning to pace the room. "He… he lied to me, too? For how many years did he lie to me?"

He stood, too, unsure of what he would do. Still, he reached out to stop her in her trajectory around the table, pale, strong fingers holding her firmly by the shoulders. "He had to. He didn't have a choice. He was doing it for you, Tifa." He took her chin between his thumb and index finger to force her to look at him. "I didn't know your name, or what you looked like, but he… he talked about his wife a lot. Now I know that it was you."

"He… he talked about me to you?"

"Yes. He would say how beautiful you were, about how much he looked forward to your cooking every night," She returned his smile, if not a little feebly. "He would tell me that as soon as he made enough money, he'd be able to start converting the spare room into a nursery…"

"Stop…" She whimpered, shaking her head desperately. "Please stop… I don't…" She was sobbing bitterly now against his chest, beating at him weakly with her fists. "I can't… it's not fair."

He found himself mentally crying out an apology to Barrett as he held her tightly, trying his best to soothe her. "I'm sorry, Tifa. I tried to tell him to wait, that we needed to make sure that… that it was safe before we rushed in… But he didn't listen. I was knocked out when the explosion happened but… he didn't make it." He waited for her breathing to calm before he forced himself to continue, directing Tifa to her cot. She lay on her side, her hands splayed across her abdomen as though she would tear in two if she let go. After a moment, he seated himself on the edge beside her. "I tried to make the men up top see sense. But they wouldn't give us the resources we needed to launch an assault on the base, now that we knew where it was. I was getting angrier by the day- how could they let Barrett's death be in vain? Two years of waiting, my partner dead, and still they would do nothing. I blamed myself for his death… I needed to make things right… maybe then I could tell his widow that we had completed what he had been to desperate to achieve."

"Barrett always rushed into things head-first," She chuckled dryly, reaching out a quivering hand to grip his arm. "Don't blame yourself, Vincent. I'm sure if he were here, he'd smack you upside the head for being so bloody impatient."

They shared a laugh at that, and Vincent felt a little better for being able to tell her the truth. "He was a great man. We all missed him."

"Why wasn't I allowed to know, Vincent?"

"Classified information. It's awful, I know. But… It can't be helped. The information would only have put you in danger."

"Aren't I in danger now, then? Why are you telling me everything that your… organisation worked so hard to keep from me?" She fixed him with her amber eyes, her expression expectant.

He swallowed. "I already put you at risk. as it was. I think you at least deserved to know why."

"I appreciate it. I could tell that… there was something about you. You started to look at me differently, like you knew me from somewhere. I guess you did, in a way, huh?"

"Hm." He noted vaguely how warm her fingers were, still entwined around his wrist.

"What were you hoping to achieve, by going in alone? That's the sort of thing Barrett would have done." She gave a soft chuckle through her nose, no doubt reminiscing.

"Yeah, well… I wanted answers, and I wanted action. I was already suspended from active duty- what more damage could I do? So I set off to make things right… Only I… I got stupid."

"Stupid?" She frowned, shifting her position a little. She was almost curled around him, her knees at one hip, and her upper body at the other.

"I met someone there that I didn't expect to see, let's just say." His lips were a thin line, and he felt a wave of unexpected anger wash over him, returning to him as it hit him then, when he realised he had been betrayed.

"You don't want to talk about it?" She'd propped herself up on one elbow, considering him carefully.

"It's not that. I just... I haven't really had the chance to think about her since… I suppose I should start at the beginning." He folded his hands in his lap, considering what exactly to tell her. It certainly wasn't a pretty story. "About six or seven years ago, this wasn't my job- being an agent, I mean. My father was of high rank in the governments agency, as was all I knew, back then. I'd seen what his profession had done to my mother- she'd been helpless to help him, left hurt by his coldness and his detached attitude towards both her, and me and my sister. I didn't want that kind of life for _my_ wife and children, as they were yet to be." He rubbed at his chin agitatedly. Her fingers, still in place at his wrist inched a little closer to his palm. "I chose a different path- I worked in the police force for five years, inching my way up the ranks. Then I met _her_." His knuckled went white.

"You met who?" She probed softly.

"Lucy. Lucy Williams. She was everything I thought I wanted in a girl; she was attractive, funny, and not to mention incredibly intelligent. First in her class in chemistry and biology, she then went on to work for a top medical research company, where she excelled-"

"Vincent, you're reading like a computer- Just tell me what happened. I don't need all the details." She worked her fingers across his palm, holding his hand firmly in hers, encouraging and steadying him. He apologised mentally to Barrett again.

"Sorry. Well, she was doing pretty well for herself. We started dating, after I was introduced to her through a friend, and we'd been together for a year when… when she just disappeared. It was as if she had been abducted by aliens or something. The detectives couldn't figure it out. Nothing of hers was missing at her apartment, nobody had seen her, or anything out of the ordinary. It was as if she had dropped out of existence, leaving no trace.

"I was devastated. I worked all through the night for most days, trying to crack the case of her disappearance. My performance dropped, and I was a mess, basically. Then my father alluded that I could do more to try and locate her if I… If I became an agent for the government."

"And you bought it?"

"Hook, line and sinker," He scoffed. "I thought I was going to be enlightened by a world of Intel and secrecy. But all I got were more false leads, and cold trails. I kept at it, though. Then I found something. Erratic signals had been getting picked up from the Kalm mountains, and there were a couple reports of 'incidents' where miners were getting killed. It was over a period of several years, and all of those deaths were explained by some sort of accident… But still, the trail eventually lead me to the Kalm mines."

"And you met Barrett, then?" A lump formed in her throat.

He game a confirmatory nod. "My father hired him. He had excellent local knowledge, and he'd pass off as a miner- I couldn't believe the size of the guy when I first met him." He shuddered to think what he might have done to him now, locked in a sound-proof, impenetrable concrete bunker with his wife. "Well, the rest is relatively simple. I managed to get in, two years ago, then I ran into Lucy."

"What was she doing there?" Tifa's shock could hardly match up to his, that day.

"She was working for them. She had been using me in an attempt to gain Intel on my father and his operations. Though it seemed that when it became clear she wasn't getting anything out of me, she just upped and left. When I saw her I… I thought… I _thought_ she was a captive there. I couldn't have made a more idiotic mistake. Because of her, they caught me. Then I found out firsthand what exactly it was they were doing there that was so bad they had to keep it hidden.

"Human experimentation. There were others there, Tifa- And it seemed they'd had the worst of it. One of them couldn't speak, and a couple of others were verging on mentally unstable. Nearly every day, from what I could tell, I was strapped to that fucking metal table and… prodded with needles, blacking out periodically until I lost all sense of time…"

"And you are alright? I mean, what did they do to you?" She made no attempt to hide her horror, her spine stiffening as she sat up a little, focussed intently upon his face.

"Like I said, I didn't seem to get the worst of it. Those poor bastards must've been…" He shook his head, the memories clearly haunting him. "I don't know what they did. All I know is… When those men… at your farm; My senses were… elevated, somehow. It was like I could hear his heart beating, like I could… I _knew_ exactly where he wouldn't be able to see me. I had strength that someone as malnourished as I was shouldn't have had…" He was staring at his hands, revolt emanating from his stiffened form. "And I only noticed what had happened to me eyes once I'd gotten the chance to see my reflection for the first time in two years. It's like I'm some kind of demon."

"No. No you're not." Sat crossed legged now, she reached across the space between them to turn his face toward hers. "Your eyes are beautiful. A testament to your suffering, if you will; to your strength and endurance."

"I wasn't strong," He said bitterly, avoiding making eye contact with her. "There were days when I just wanted it all to end. I just wanted to die, to escape the seemingly never-ending hell I was trapped in."

"But you made it out alive. You survived."

"Yes. But at what cost?" He stared down at his palms again, finding them trembling slightly. "She got in my way… I… I had to… I had no other choice."

"Lucy?" Tifa dared to whisper her name. What had he done?

"It's… it's getting late." He stated after a moment, getting steadily to his feet and crossing over to his own bunk. "We should rest. We have a long day ahead, no doubt." The hurricane lamp was snuffed out, and the room sank into the thickest kind of darkness. No windows, no cracks through which light could enter. It choked her momentarily.

"Vincent?" She called out testily.

"Hm?"

"Could you… Will you promise me something?"

"What is it?" She could hear him desist in moving, perhaps adjusting his position in the small bed.

"I'm scared, Vincent. Everything that I thought I knew has changed… You are… you are the only friend I have. Please don't leave me, when we get out of here. Don't let them keep secrets from me about Barrett, as if they knew him better than I did. Don't'-" She was near panicking now, though she felt somewhat soothed by the sudden burst of light as the hurricane lamp was lit again, Vincent's shadow passing before it as he approached her bunk.

"Hey… Calm down." His hand rested against her still-damp hair, his weight comforting beside her as he seated himself on the edge of the mattress. "I promise I won't let them drag you off anywhere. I won't let them hide anything from you anymore. You deserve to know the truth."

"You'll stay?" She wasn't really making sense, but he nodded anyway.

"I'm not going to leave you, I swear. Ok?" When he received a shaky yet confirmatory nod, he left her to return once again to his bed, this time leaving the lamp on.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

_-Part Five-_

"This is it, now." He stated, his hand poised before the button. "Once I press this, they will be alerted, and a team should be on its way to collect us. There's no turning back. Are you sure you're ready?"

Judging by Vincent's watch, as she had no other way to determine the time, it was a few hours past dawn. "I… I'm ready." She was sat at the small Formica table, Scout's snout resting upon her lap. She scratched him behind the ears to ease her own discomfort.

"All right. Headquarters, here we come." He heaved a sigh before pushing the button with a weighted sigh.

After an immeasurable amount of time had passed, or at least it seemed that way to Tifa, there came a resonant, shrill beeping sound from the control panel at the door. She met Vincent's gaze as he approached it, pausing only briefly to make sure she was in place with the shotgun she'd thought to bring along aimed at the door. Just in case.

After pressing the button he stepped away quickly to join her stood sentry before the door, aiming his revolver, too.

The metal door whined as it was pushed open. illuminated from the lights within, was an ethereally beautiful woman. She was perhaps a few inches taller than Tifa, clad all in black leather. Her sheet of black hair fell almost to her waist, and though Tifa was too far away to detect the colour of her eyes, she was sure they might have been green. Behind her were several helmeted men, armed and alert.

"Anna?" Vincent called out testily, his grip on the revolver faltering. Tifa stared from the woman, to Vincent, and then back again, only lowering her weapon partially when she saw Vincent holster his. The guards relaxed.

"It's good to see you alive, Vincent." She stepped forwards gracefully and embraced him, smiling with her full, sensuous lips. "The terrible twins are together again." Anna rested her chin upon his shoulder, though her inquisitive gaze was fixed upon Tifa, faltering in the background. "Who is she?"

"This is… Uh… This is Tifa Wallace."

She gave him one, hard look before she said, "Fuck."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I know this is slow, but its coming together.


End file.
